Run: 2026-10-05-01M46B3ECBMVKPHVDKMRX1ZQT2

Molly spread the birthday invitation across their kitchen table. Beside it, Bill arranged three jellybeans with the solemn precision of a general deploying doomed cavalry. “Tomorrow, we enter the party, collect every present, and leave before anyone notices. No improvising, Bill. Last time, you married the security guard’s elderly mother.” Bill examined the invitation. A cartoon dinosaur wore a crown, which he considered an irresponsible endorsement of hereditary government. He pointed at the glittery lettering. “That marriage was tactical. Besides, Doris makes excellent soup. What’s our cover here? Caterers? Magicians? Estranged uncles with suspiciously large pockets and complicated inheritance grievances?” Molly produced two clown noses from her coat. One squeaked. The other made a noise suggesting a duck had received unexpectedly disappointing blood test results. “We’re entertainers. Children love clowns, and parents love anything that keeps children occupied. While you perform, I’ll handle the presents. Please avoid your divorce material.” Bill fitted the squeaking nose, then regarded his reflection in the toaster. His face suggested a man discovering that rock bottom had mandatory costume requirements. “My divorce material kills. Fine, balloon animals instead. I can make a snake, a tired snake, and a snake questioning whether this career deserves benefits.” Outside, rain tapped the window like an impatient debt collector. Molly opened her notebook, revealing a drawing of the gift table surrounded by question marks. “We need everything: bicycles, dolls, building sets. Nothing left behind. This is our biggest score since the museum. And considerably less likely to involve curses.” Bill studied the drawing. He had once stolen a cursed chalice, although its only demonstrable power was making every beverage taste faintly of boiled cabbage. “There’s an ethical wrinkle. Those are children’s presents. Also, bicycles are bulky. Also, eight year olds can bite through denim. I’ve seen documentaries. Grim ones.” Molly turned the invitation over. Her expression changed. Bill recognized that look: arithmetic had entered the room, and their criminal ambitions were about to suffer. “It says no gifts. Donations to the school instead. The presents in the photograph are decorations. Empty boxes. We’ve spent three hours planning cardboard theft.” The rain continued. Somewhere upstairs, their landlord dropped something heavy, perhaps another hint. Bill removed his clown nose with the dignity of a retiring monarch. “Cardboard has resale value. Probably. We could pivot to cake. Or steal the magician’s rabbit. Doris wants a pet that doesn’t criticize her soup constantly.” Molly stared at the invitation again, then slowly smiled. It was her professional smile, the one usually followed by sirens, apologies, or both before breakfast. “They’re paying entertainers two hundred pounds. We show up, do balloon snakes, eat cake, and leave with actual money. Nobody chases us. It’s almost sinister.” Bill replaced the nose. It squeaked mournfully. He considered this alarming new enterprise, involving scheduled hours, taxable income, and applause instead of a getaway vehicle. “Fine. But if anyone asks, we’re stealing their expectations. And I’m taking a party bag, Molly. A man has to draw the line somewhere respectable.”